The sad case of those who love in vain, you remember, is the subject of the book.

The saddest of autobiographies, it has been called.
An odd thing, this, I think.

Tearing home (for the more he was engrossed in mind the quicker he walked), Tommy was not revelling in Pym's praise; he was neither blanching nor smiling at the thought that he of all people had written as one who was unloved; he was not wondering what Grizel would say to it; he had even forgotten to sigh over his own coming dissolution (indeed, about this time the flower-pot began to fade from his memory).

What made him cut his way so excitedly through the streets was this: Pym had questioned his use of the word "untimely" in chapter eight.

And Tommy had always been uneasy about that word.
He glared at every person he passed, and ran into perambulators.